Charlie Bone and the Castle of Mirrors. Jenny Nimmo

began to climb the stairs.

      Emma was often to be found in the Art gallery, a long, airy room overlooking the garden. Today, however, the room appeared to be empty. Charlie searched the paint cupboard and inspected the shelves at the back of the room, then he crossed the gallery and descended an iron spiral that took him down into the sculpture studio.

      ‘Hi, Charlie!’ called a voice.

      ‘Hey, come on over,’ called another.

      Charlie looked round to see two boys in green aprons grinning at him from either side of a large block of stone. One had a brown face and the other was very pale. Charlie’s two friends were now in the third year. They had both grown considerably during the summer holiday, and so had their hair. Lysander, the African, now had a neat head of dreadlocks decorated with coloured beads, while Tancred had gelled his stiff, blond hair into a forest of spikes.

      ‘What brings you down here, Charlie?’ asked Tancred.

      ‘I’m looking for my trumpet. Hey, I hardly recognised you two.’

      ‘You haven’t changed,’ said Lysander with a wide smile. ‘How d’you like the second year?’

      ‘I don’t know. I’m in a bit of a muddle. I keep going to the wrong place. I’ve lost my trumpet. I’m in trouble with Manfred and there’s an er, um, thing in the garden.’

      ‘What d’you mean, a thing?’ Tancred’s blond hair fizzled slightly.

      Charlie told them about the horse Billy had seen in the sky, and the hoofbeats in the garden.

      ‘Interesting,’ said Lysander.

      ‘Ominous,’ said Tancred. ‘I don’t like the sound of it.’ The sleeves of his shirt quivered. It was difficult for Tancred to hide his endowment. He was like a walking weathervane, his moods affecting the air around him to such an extent that you could say he had his own personal weather.

      ‘I’d better keep looking for my trumpet,’ said Charlie. ‘Oh, what’s the last line of the Hall rules?’

      ‘Be you small or tall,’ said Lysander quickly.

      ‘Thanks, Sander. I’ve got to write the whole thing out a hundred times before supper, and give it to Manfred – if I can find his study. You don’t happen to know where it is, do you?’

      Tancred shook his head and Lysander said, ‘Not a clue.’

      Charlie was about to return the way he’d come when Tancred suggested he try somewhere else. ‘Through there,’ said Tancred, indicating a door at the end of the Sculpture studio. ‘The new children are having their first art lesson. I think I saw one carrying a trumpet.

      ‘Thanks, Tanc!’

      Charlie walked into a room he’d never seen before. About fifteen silent children sat round a long table, sketching. Each of them had a large sheet of paper and an object in front of them. They were all concentrating fiercely on their work, and none of them looked up when Charlie appeared.

      ‘What do you want?’ A thin, fair-haired man with freckles spoke from the end of the table. A new Art teacher, Charlie presumed.

      ‘My trumpet, sir,’ said Charlie.

      ‘And why do you think it’s here?’ asked the teacher.

      ‘Because, there it is!’ Charlie had just seen a trumpet exactly like his. The instrument was being sketched by a small boy with bits of paper sticking to his hair. The boy looked up at Charlie.

      ‘Joshua Tilpin,’ said the teacher, ‘where did you get that trumpet?’

      ‘It’s mine, Mr Delf.’ Joshua Tilpin had small pale grey eyes. He half-closed them and wrinkled his nose at Charlie.

      Charlie couldn’t stop himself. He leapt forward, seized the trumpet and turned it over. Last term he had scratched a tiny CB near the mouthpiece. The trumpet was his. ‘It’s got my initials on it, sir.’

      ‘Let me see.’ Mr Delf held out his hand.

      Charlie handed over the trumpet. ‘My name’s Charlie Bone, sir. See, they’re my initials.’

      ‘You shouldn’t deface musical instruments like this. But it does appear to be yours. Joshua Tilpin, why did you lie?’

      Everyone looked at Joshua. He didn’t go red, as Charlie would have expected. Instead, he gave a huge grin, revealing a row of small, uneven teeth. ‘Sorry, sir. Really, really sorry, Charlie. Only a joke. Forgive me, please!’

      Neither Charlie nor the teacher knew how to reply to this. Mr Delf passed the trumpet to Charlie, saying, ‘You’d better get back to your class.’

      ‘Thank you, sir.’ Charlie clutched his trumpet and turned to the door. He took a good look at Joshua Tilpin as he went. He had an odd feeling that the new boy was endowed. Joshua’s sleeves were covered in scraps of paper and tiny bits of eraser. Even as Charlie watched, a broken pencil lead suddenly leapt off the table and attached itself to the boy’s thumb. He gave Charlie a sly grin and flicked it off. Charlie felt as though an invisible thread were tugging him towards the strange boy.

      He quickly left the room, and the thread was broken.

      The sculpture studio rang with the sound of steel on stone. Tancred and Lysander weren’t the only ones chipping away at lumps of rock. Charlie flourished his trumpet in the air, ‘Got it,’ he sang out.

      ‘Knew it,’ said Tancred.

      Charlie’s next priority was the hundred lines. Where should he write them? He decided on his new classroom. As he crossed the hall he was swamped by groups of children, some coming in from games, others rushing down the stairs, still more emerging from the cloakrooms. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going, except Charlie. Something had gone horribly wrong with his timetable. He hurried on, hoping to find at least some of his year group in the classroom.

      There was a note pinned to the classroom door. It was printed in the same old-fashioned script as the words on Mr Pilgrim’s door:

       Tantalus Ebony

       Music, Mime and Medieval History

      Charlie put his ear to the door. Not a sound came from the other side. He went in. There were no children in the room, but there was a teacher. He sat at a high desk in front of the window; a teacher with a long, narrow face and black eyebrows that met across the bridge of his nose. His dark hair covered his ears, and a heavy fringe ended just above his eyebrows. He wore a purple cloak.

      ‘Yes?’ said the teacher, looking up from his book.

      Charlie swallowed. ‘I’ve come to write out some lines, sir.’

      ‘Name?’ The man’s voice rumbled as though it came from underground.

      ‘Charlie Bone, sir.’

      ‘Approach!’ The teacher beckoned with a long, white finger.

      Charlie walked up to the desk. The man stared at him for a full minute. His left eye was grey and his right eye was brown. It was most disconcerting. Charlie was tempted to look away but he held his ground and looked first into one eye, and then the other. An angry frown crossed the man’s face and he leaned back, almost as though he feared that Charlie had seen some part of himself that he wished to keep secret. Eventually, the teacher said, ‘I am Tantalus Ebony.’

      ‘I guessed that, sir.’

      ‘How presumptuous. Stand still.’

      Charlie was about to say that he hadn’t moved, when Mr Ebony went on, ‘Why are you not with the rest of your form?’

      ‘I got a bit muddled, sir.’

      ‘Muddled? Muddled is for first formers. Not a very promising beginning for your second year, is it, Charlie Bone? And you say you have lines already. I wonder why?’